


Gossip and Good Counsel

by charlottemadison



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A little bit His Girl Friday, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale the Agony Aunt, Cigarettes, Crowley the Gossip and Glamour Columnist, Dear Abby, Drunkenness, F/F, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), Female Crowley (Good Omens), Good AUmens AU Festival, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Lady Journalists Had It Rough Back in the Day, Maisie Rae Fell, Newspaper AU, No Smut, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Please these two need fashion plates, Post-WWII Fashion and Fun, Some gender essentialism reflecting the era, Though our characters will challenge it as they grow, Toni Crowley, a little bit Mad Men, but wives, please imagine everyone has terrific hats, wlw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24751630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison
Summary: Between them, they were perhaps the best known living women in print, read by millions across the nation every day. And yet neither had ever been offered a private office.Their rivalry was famous. Occasionally their adjacent columns subtly sniped at one another -- except for when the sniping was not so subtle.Their most cutting exchange was so widely known that it was parodied in skits on variety television for years: "Why, that prudish, pigeon-toed, kitchenbound fuddy-duddy wouldn't know a good time if it bit her in the bustier!" Toni Crowley had scoffed to a barkeep who turned out to be an undercover tabloid reporter."Well, one could attend on one’s own, but then one wouldn't want to be confused with a certain notoriously noxious, tragically lonely, careerist gossipy tramp," Maisie Rae Fell had said in honeyed tones a few days later, offering live on-air advice during a radio special.The editors and the advertisers loved the drama.Toni and Maisie Rae, sharing their second bottle of wine in a dark hotel bar after work, did not.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 137
Kudos: 243
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tremendous thanks to the most wonderful beta @willowherb.
> 
> A brief note about gender and orientation in this story:  
> Expect period-typical binary thinking about gender, especially in chapter 1; our characters will revisit and revise their oversimplified understanding as they grow (although through period-typical language). 
> 
> No overt homophobia or homophobic language, although some characters are closeted for their safety and happiness. Safety and happiness which they'll have in this story, because they deserve it.

Their columns appeared side by side in the lifestyle section, just after the funny pages, with prettified illustrations of their faces under each byline.

The art department always slimmed down Maisie Rae Fell when they drew her -- the double chin was omitted, her squinting eyes were made to look large and long-lashed, her specs were nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile Toni Crowley’s nose was reduced and her jaw softened, though they let her keep the signature arched eyebrow for which she was known all over town. The first time Toni was photographed in color, the studio changed her hair in post from flaming red to a respectable dark auburn. They didn’t want to put off the Catholic readers, after all; Toni was supposed to be risqué, but not scandalous. Whenever they photographed Maisie Rae, at a carefully engineered angle, they made her wear a wig, having declared her hair a lost cause.

Evolving opinions on what a woman _ought_ to look like were a newspaper’s stock-in-trade, after all. The editors and the advertising department both reinforced that reality with their two prized lady Lifestyle columnists, a little more often and a little more insistently than was comfortable.

“What are you makin’ ‘em wanna buy today?” Bea would ask them weekly. “Remember, women make most shopping choices for the home.”

“This doesn’t fit with your public image,” Gabriel would remark, slashing up drafts with a red pen. “Could you keep it vague whether you have a spouse and kids? Our readers don’t want to hear from spinsters.”

Maisie Rae and Toni would exchange looks and retreat to their typewriters on opposite corners of the bureau floor. They were perhaps the best known living women in print, read by millions across the nation every day. And yet neither had ever been offered a private office.

To appease Advertising, Toni inserted the observation that bracelet gloves were making a comeback, as witnessed at last night's memorable _Two to Tango_ premiere afterparty – during which the romantic leads of the film escaped to a balcony for nearly an hour of private time, and who was Toni Crowley to speculate about that? Or what their spouses thought about it? All _she_ knew was that the bar at the Plaza served a zinger of a martini, and that she was in the market for some hunter green gloves.

For Gabriel's sake, Maisie Rae edited her reply to a housewife, who suffered under her mother-in-law’s overbearing interference; as always, Maisie Rae answered with compassion and sensible advice, but she struck out “suppose” where it might imply that she had no mother-in-law herself (which she did not). For good measure, she also recommended a gift of new tupperware to placate the problematic parent.

After fine-tuning their features, they labored over correspondence, expense reports, phone calls, and inter-office memos, handling all of it for themselves, since management thought it redundant for lady columnists (however renowned) to have secretaries.

Thus had Maisie Rae Fell and Toni Crowley whiled away a dozen long years as bastions of _The Daily Herald._

Popular sentiment was that the two of them represented the best and worst of modern womanhood, though which writer represented which extreme was up for debate. Their names were invoked at baby showers and cocktail hours everywhere, by women debating which one they'd rather emulate -- and by men musing about how small and petty women's concerns must be, if they worried so much about whether to stamp and self-address RSVPs or which celebrity wore what to the gala. But no matter their sex, no matter their political alignment, _nobody_ didn't have a ready opinion about Maisie Rae Fell and Toni Crowley.

Their rivalry was famous. Occasionally the adjacent columns subtly sniped at one another -- except for when the sniping was not so subtle. Their most cutting exchange was so widely known that it was parodied in skits on variety television for years: "Why, that prudish, pigeon-toed, kitchenbound fuddy-duddy wouldn't know a good time if it bit her in the bustier!" Toni had scoffed to a barkeep who turned out to be an undercover tabloid reporter. "Well, one _could_ attend on one’s own, but then one wouldn't want to be confused with a certain notoriously noxious, _tragically_ lonely, careerist gossipy tramp," Maisie Rae had said in honeyed tones a few days later, offering live on-air advice during a radio special.

The editors and the advertisers _loved_ the drama.

Toni and Maisie Rae, sharing their second bottle of wine in a dark hotel bar after work, did not.

"Beg pardon?" asked Maisie Rae.

"I _said,_ that went down like a lead balloon," Toni groused.

"Doesn't it always?"

"Well."

"Well."

"You know how it is." Maisie Rae shook her head resignedly, her perfect posture wavering somewhat under the influence of the wine. "They need us to be what they need us to be."

 _"Nnnnrgh,"_ Toni replied, slumping in a most unladylike fashion.

"What've you got on tonight?" Maisie Rae asked, looking politely interested (which was her resting demeanor).

Toni rubbed her forehead wearily. "Restaurant opening. A society do; I'll have to be ever so gay. Then a bohemian afterparty near the waterfront, rich folks slumming it with artists. Where I s’pose I’ll switch to being ever so aloof."

“And here you are, getting a head start on the evening.”

“Nnph. I know the staff, they’ll keep me in tonic and peanuts.”

"Any good leads?" 

"Nothing yet. Everybody's been behaving all week. Hopefully that stops tonight."

"What happens if there's no trouble?"

"Then I make some trouble," Toni declared darkly. She exaggerated raising her pinky to take another deep draught of claret. "How 'bout you, angel? Off to sit on a rainbow and pluck your harp until your eight o'clock bedtime?"

Maisie Rae's shoulders shimmied with indignation. "You know very well that I retire at ten-thirty. No, I have some new books out from the library, so I think I'll make a nice cup of cocoa and read in bed. After I write to Mother, of course."

"How stimulating."

"Yes, well, it wouldn't suit _some,_ but it's just my cup of tea. Or rather, my cup of cocoa." She was tipsy enough to find her own little joke worth several peals of giggles. Toni frowned severely, although Toni frowned nearly all the time when she wasn't out on the town (and half the time when she was).

The server came by to check on them, but they waved him away before he could say a word, and he retreated. This place had become their usual haunt for two reasons: dim lighting and discreet staff. Toni sat back, sighing heavily. The green glass lamps over the bar gleamed in her dark glasses.

After quite a long silence, she asked, "Don't you ever long to do something else?"

"Such as?"

"Don't you want to bust out of that little box they keep you in? Go -- I don’t know, smoke a few cigarettes? Lose your temper? Stay out late and kiss a stranger, or a few?"

 _"Really,_ Crowley."

"...Skip out on mailing a thank you note?"

"Well, what about you?" Maisie Rae rejoined. "Aren't you bored of the empty-headed dramatic society tarts and their pretensions? All the games, the lies, the ambition? Getting groped by tuxedoed drunks day in and day out?"

Toni grunted and twisted up her mouth most unpleasantly.

"Don't you ever _fantasize_ about turning in early for a hot bath and a full night's sleep?" crooned Maisie Rae, fluttering her eyelashes.

 _"Uuunnnngh."_ Toni tipped her hat forward and scowled. "It'd be something to have options. But seeing as we don't, I'll take my lot over yours any day. I’d expire prematurely of sheer boredom."

"You understand precisely how I feel, then. ‘Some must watch while some must sleep.’" Maisie Rae gave a pert little nod to herself out of habit, a tic that Toni had always found irritating, if comforting in its well-worn familiarity.

“So runs the world away,’” Toni drawled, finishing the couplet and chasing it with half a glass of wine.

"Bottoms up," said Maisie Rae, raising a toast (their eighth or so of the evening). "We may not have options, but at least we have...we have...well, we must have something?"

"Wine."

"Right. Yes. I was going to say ‘each other,’ but..."

"Cheers, angel. Drink up."

++++++++++++++

_Dear Good Counsel,_

_My boss likes to ask questions about my weekend or my evening plans, but our employee handbook says that secretaries oughtn’t discuss our personal lives. How should I answer him so as to be pleasant, but not dull or inappropriate? - S.K._

_Dear S.K.,_

_You don’t mention whether your boss is merely making small talk or attempting overtures of a more familiar nature -- perhaps you do not know, yourself. (The world being what it is these days, his marital status may give you fewer clues about his intentions than you might wish.) It is incumbent upon you to determine what he means by these leading questions, and to decide how that makes you feel. Bear always in mind that romance in the workplace, especially with one’s immediate superior, is thorny and treacherous territory indeed._

_I cannot recommend enough the defense of a good book in situations like these. Having enriching reading close at hand will give you something to discuss without offering any personal details or boring your boss, and it is an easy subject to open and close quickly -- or to draw out, if you both find the conversation pleasant. It puts the focus on your personality instead of your private life. And of course, the cultural, social, and psychological benefits of being well-read go far beyond successful small talk in the office, and will set you apart from the average cinema-goer or magazine subscriber. A lady on her way up in the world spends as much at the bookstore as at the makeup counter._

_G.C._

_Dear Good Counsel,_

_My neighbor plays his hifi at top volume in the morning. I’ve got nothing against Vivaldi (it’s always Vivaldi, only Vivaldi) but any music at all is hard to take before 8AM. The trouble is, my neighbor is the property manager, and he’s responsible for enforcing noise complaints in our building. What do I do? - P.F._

_Dear P.F.,_

_I suggest a most polite and deferential note slipped under the door, and, should that measure fail -- and depending on the length of your lease -- learn to sleep with earplugs. A property manager’s displeasure is a recipe for lockouts and plumbing problems._

_G.C._

_Send your questions to Good Counsel c/o The Daily Herald at the address below, and mail order your copy of Maisie Rae Fell’s ‘The Elegant Bride,’ a must-have collection of wedding etiquette and advice for your special day._

_++++++++++++++++_

_Loyal Readers:_

_Spring has sprung! And with the return of sunny weather we welcome shorter skirts, shorter sleeves, and shorter attention spans among recently engaged young men -- as yours truly witnessed last night, at not one but_ **_two_ ** _late night shindigs hosted in the private art studios of the West Riverside neighborhood, and progressively attended by a number of elite guests that the a_ ** _S_** _tute re_ ** _A_** _der would dou_ ** _B_** _tless_ **_R_** _ecognize from mi_ ** _S_** _ad_ ** _V_** _entures reported_ **_H_** _ere previ_ ** _O_** _usly._

 _A certain Casanova of stage and screen (whose nuptial announcements this January, you may recall, caused a run on_ **_B_** _lack_ **_H_** _ats and veils as women the world over went into mourning) was spied cutting a rug and carrying on in very willing company at both private parties. Perhaps his fiancée was enjoying a quiet night in, reading the classics or scrubbing the kitchen or tatting, as befits a lady preparing for domestic bliss?_

_The hosts of the second party indulged us all with a surprise concert by Natasha King and the Sugar Loves, in celebration of their new record (out last week on Celestial). Natasha was in fine form, wearing a red Divata sheath and white pumps. We were delighted to see her on the arm of Rudy Jacques, who is heir to the Jacques family steel fortune and infamously reputed -- or so a little bird tells me -- to be Delicious Fun after a few drinks on a yacht in Lake Como. Whether the couple are an item or Just Friends was unclear, but they photograph handsomely and they left the scene together; beyond that, gentle readers, you must dream up details for yourself. Rudy’s brother, still something of a pariah since the Kumquat Incident, was not in attendance, though curiosity about his political ambitions permeated the conversation._

_Circle skirts that fall just below the knee were a sensation on the dance floor, we observe with some relief, since this summer is shaping up to be a scorcher; your faithful correspondent didn’t even need a coat on her footsore journey home this morning._

_Behave, darlings, or better yet, don’t --_

_G.G._

_P.S. A note from our footsore journey home: we look forward to providing hints as to the identity of the well-known gentleman spotted fountain-hopping in the nude this morning in Market Square, just as soon as The Daily Herald’s attorneys advise us how specific we may prudently be._

_Send tips, leads, and invitations to Gossip and Glamour c/o the Daily Herald, address below. Anonymity guaranteed. Find Toni Crowley’s home cocktail recipe book ‘Temptations with a Twist’ in discerning bookstores and gift shops near you._

++++++++++++++

They’d met at a mixer. It was not a _good_ mixer.

At the time, Toni Crowley was a recent acquisition from a ladies’ magazine, but she was already making quite a splash, both with readers and with management. There were whispers that her column could be nationally syndicated despite the local focus of her work; the public's appetite for salacious celebrity exposés apparently knew no limit.

Maisie Rae was reluctant to attend social events outside of work. But the Lifestyle Editor, Gabriel Horne, insisted she make an appearance. So she buttoned up her smartest ivory skirt suit, purchased just after the war -- and perhaps not fitting as well it once did -- and she played chicken with a curling iron for twenty minutes before surrendering and picking out the sort of hat she might not be expected to remove.

She wouldn’t win any beauty pageants, but then she also knew that she was only there to be trotted out in front of the board and major advertisers like a ribbon-winning show horse, and then ignored for the rest of the evening. Unless some poor soul approached the etiquette equivalent of the dermatologist with the etiquette equivalent of a mole, hoping to have it examined at a cocktail party, which happened to Maisie Rae more often than not when she went out. To avoid such an encounter, she did her best to blend into the walls of the tawdry event room of the Limbo Lounge.

She had no cause for worry, though. All eyes were on Toni Crowley.

Toni wore a slinky little black number that showed off every curve of her serpentine frame. She was being paraded around on Gabriel’s arm, cocktail in one hand, dramatic theatre-length cigarette holder in the other. The art department hooted. The reporters crowed. The editors ogled all that future subscription and ad money sauntering around the room in emerald-green high heels. The photographers used more company film and flashbulbs than they were allowed.

Gabriel took the floor and raised his commanding voice over the din of the social hour. “We’re pleased as punch to have Miss Crowley joining us this month!” he announced with a marquee smile, lifting Toni’s hand and suddenly twirling her before she was ready. She managed to follow through with only a minor splash of Sidecar from her glass.

“Finally we’ll have a little _fun_ up on the fourth floor!” he went on. “We’ve been desperate for a dose of good looks and bare legs up there. Everybody’s so buttoned down. But the Herald is getting with the Times --" the assembly laughed at his pun about their crosstown competitor "-- and we in Lifestyle are eager to cater to the true modern woman!”

Toni Crowley grinned wickedly and laughed at everyone, and admirers flocked to ask her questions and offer more cocktails. When Ligur the copy editor snuck in and kissed her on the cheek, she put a hand over her mouth in faux shock and pantomimed throwing her drink on him. The crowd was titillated.

And Maisie Rae was tired.

After making her obligatory rounds, picking over the appetizers, and downing a glass of sherry, she retreated to the powder room. She wouldn’t be missed. Much to her surprise, Toni was already there, draped sideways across the couch and scowling sharply around the dark sunglasses she had apparently just put on.

“Oh! Hello, how do you do?” chirped Maisie Rae, never one to forget her manners. She had no plans to rejoin the party, no makeup, and no particular need of the powder room, but she pretended to fuss with her hair just to have something to do.

“Hi,” Toni grimaced.

“And how is your evening?”

 _“Nnnnnrrphg,”_ came the illuminating answer.

Maisie Rae turned toward the couch, and got the impression she had somehow snuck a peek backstage. It wasn’t that Toni was any less charismatic sprawled out and groaning; in fact she looked better this way -- less like a paper doll and more like a person. “A glass of water, perhaps, my dear?”

“Mmph.” Toni shifted, all angles now instead of curves, scorning proper posture with her every joint and limb. “Don’t suppose you have an aspirin on hand?”

“Oh, of course!” Maisie Rae rummaged in her handbag. “Is it a headache? Or…”

“Permanent headache, really. Chronic condition. ‘S called men,” Toni glowered. Her voice was far deeper and richer when she wasn’t laughing for the benefit of a mediocre staff party. She stretched her long legs out across the sofa, and her skirt rucked up to reveal most of them. “You’re Maisie Rae, aren’t you?” she remarked in a marginally friendlier tone.

“How’d you know?” Maisie Rae cocked her head curiously. New hires -- well, even old hands -- usually mistook her for one of the secretaries. The public image the paper curated for her had the lucky side effect of protecting her anonymity.

Toni raised an eyebrow. “I’d be a piss-poor columnist if I weren’t reading the only syndicated lady in the business.” Then she swallowed and looked, for a fleeting moment, nervous. “B’sides, I asked about you, first day on the floor. Thought you’d have a fancy suite ‘n everything, with your readership.”

Maisie Rae laughed her politest laugh. “Oh, I’m just one of the girls. We’re all family up there, really.”

“Bullshit.”

That was not a word Maisie Rae was accustomed to hearing from ‘one of the girls.’ Her manners momentarily failed her. Her mouth fell open, and it did not shut.

Toni Crowley kicked her legs over her head like a can-can dancer, sprung up onto her _very_ high heels, and stalked right over to Maisie Rae Fell with her hips and her cocktail glass swinging wildly.

“Don’t be coy. There’s no family here. You’re the best in your business, and I mean to be the best in mine,” she hissed. “Those buffoons in editorial don’t understand who really sells their papers. And they don’t know which page their readers turn to first. If they did, you’d have a corner office. I’ve seen the advertising numbers, and I'm sure you have, too. _We_ know the score.”

Toni had come _ever_ so close, looming large, leaning. Her eyes were nearly visible through the smoked lenses. Maisie Rae’s mouth still would not close.

Suddenly Toni was grinning, all white teeth and temptation. “Don’t we?”

“Don’t we what?” whispered Maisie Rae, finding only a fraction of her voice.

“Know the score.” Toni stood up straight and crossed her arms, and the grin dimmed to a wry smirk.

Maisie Rae consulted her extensive Etiquette Encyclopedia and blinked helplessly when she found not a single entry containing “bullshit” or “looming lovely lady colleague” or “knowing the score.” 

Her expedition through her handbag had been more fruitful, however, and she remembered that she was clutching a silver compact full of aspirin. She shut her mouth and offered it up.

Toni looked genuinely surprised by the gesture. “Oh! Right. Thanks. You’re an angel.” 

Their fingers brushed in the exchange.

“Well!” said Maisie Rae.

That was what she always said when she was stalling for time to construct her next sentence. Toni waited, eyebrows arched in curiosity, until she could think of something. “You’ve -- you’re -- it’s -- it’s lovely to have you on board. You’re making quite an impression out there, Miss...Crowley, isn’t that right?”

With a fluid sweep of her arm, Toni poured her cocktail into the sink, filled her glass with water, and tossed back three pills at once. “Call me Crowley,” she said, sounding bemused. “Or Toni. Never ‘Miss.’ Miss is for those useless drips out there.”

Maisie Rae looked at the door. “You mean our employers?”

“I mean the men.” Toni winked.

For a moment Maisie Rae considered. “They have some uses, I suppose. Emptying the mousetraps. Carrying heavy objects. Installing appliances.”

Her assessment seemed to please Toni. “Telling other people to make them coffee,” Toni added. “Squashing spiders.”

Maisie Rae giggled. “Actually, the last time Gabriel had a spider in his office, he called his girl in to deal with it. And she called me.”

“Why’m I not surprised?”

“Because, as you said, we know the score.” Maisie Rae relaxed as she caught the coarse, playful rhythm of Toni’s banter. It felt like boarding a streetcar in motion, it felt like they were going somewhere together, and it was...fun.

 _We_ \-- that could be nice. She liked the thought of being Toni’s colleague. She liked the idea that her column would have a companion, an accomplice in the upper right-hand corner of the Lifestyle center page.

Toni’s smirk softened into a sincere little smile. “It’s a privilege to meet you, Maisie Rae Fell. If I do get anywhere, it’ll be standing on the shoulders of giants, ‘n all that.”

“In those shoes?” laughed Maisie Rae.

“Angel, in these shoes I’ve stood on tables, bars, diving boards, the occasional necktie, and a trotting horse.” Toni turned to the mirror and straightened her dress, adjusted her hair. “I look forward to telling my readers to do the opposite of whatever you say.”

Maisie Rae sniffed and pursed her lips. “Then I shall redouble my efforts to communicate the benefits of social graces and minding one’s manners.”

“This’ll be some fun, eh?”

“I look forward to our partnership.”

Toni put away her sunglasses. Her eyes were a warm honey brown, and faint smile lines crinkled the edges beneath her makeup. “Once more unto the breach?”

Drawing herself up and squaring her shoulders, Maisie Rae nodded and smiled. “After you,” she said, opening the door.

As they returned to the party, she tried not to glance at Toni’s legs. She tried not to stare at the perfect wave in Toni’s red hair. She tried not to watch the cigarette holder as it traced elegant calligraphic shapes in the air. 

But she already knew deep down that _trying_ to get past the shock of meeting Toni Crowley wouldn’t get her anywhere.

“There’s our girls!” Gabriel trumpeted as they crossed the threshold together. He swept up behind them and threw an arm around each of their waists. “Our two lady columnists. _Two!_ And you’re opposites, aren’t you? A matched set. Naughty and nice, I love it. It’s perfect.”

The two lady columnists exchanged a look.

Maisie Rae broke out her utility smile.

“Bea and I were just talking about the potential for new angles in ad sales.” Gabriel waved across the room and shouted. “Hey, Bea! I found them! Y’know, we should do a joint photo shoot and a story, both of you together. I can see it for the Sunday insert.”

“What a gas,” Toni sang out merrily, with a rebellious flash in her eye.

“How splendid,” said Maisie Rae, although she hated to be photographed.

Some weeks later, _The Daily Herald_ ran the feature. Toni, in a sleeveless black dress and gaudy jewelry, raised a wine glass to the camera. Maisie Rae, in a white skirt and blazer -- and a wig of course -- clutched a leather-bound book in gloved hands and tilted her chin just so.

They posed back to back, each looking proud in their own very different ways. In a 48-point sans serif, the headline proclaimed: 

**"VIRTUE AND VICE"**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The VIRTUE AND VICE cover is here, by the amazing @idanit:  
> https://idanit.tumblr.com/post/624511607359340544/some-weeks-later-the-daily-herald-ran-the
> 
> Stay tuned for more! And kindly imagine the most glamorous wardrobe you can for everyone in this story. I have left scope for the imagination to that end.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Dear Good Counsel, _

_ My husband practices magic tricks and comedy routines at home. He’s only ever done it to amuse himself, which is fortunate since he frankly doesn’t have much talent for it. But now he wants to entertain at our nephew’s birthday party. He even bought a top hat! I don’t have the heart to tell him he won’t be very entertaining, especially not to children, but I fear if I let him go through with it, he'll be humiliated. What do I say? - A.C. _

_ Dear A.C., _

_ As long as he’s not attempting to saw anyone in half, let him endure the ordeal, and be prepared to comfort him afterwards. A confrontation in advance could be devastating to his confidence in other areas, and the satisfaction of ‘I told you so’ afterwards would be fleeting and sour for you. Needless conflict on the subject will serve neither of you well. _

_ And who knows? He could succeed with a trick or two. Or he might enjoy himself even if he fails. In either case, the children will offer the most cutting and candid of reviews (as we all know only children can). Leave evaluating his talents to his audience, and focus on being a loving wife when it's all over. _

_ If he asks you how you think it went, tell him he looks very fetching in a top hat. _

_ G.C. _

\+ + +

Toni Crowley typically clocked in around noon, armored in her smart black trench coat, the darkest of sunglasses, a scarf covering her hair, and cotton in her ears. She would stalk slowly to her desk through the din of typewriters and the haze of cigarette smoke. Her procession was always observed with some reverence by the other women on the floor, as they wondered and occasionally whispered:  _ where had she been last night? What had she got up to? Who had she seen? _

Any of the other girls would have been fired had they arrived so late, slouched so low, or visited the coffee pot so often as Toni did before she settled into any actual work. But she was  _ Toni Crowley, _ and despite the fact that hers was just another desk on the secretarial floor, everyone knew that she was the exception. She was special. And she was absolutely not to be disturbed before two o'clock.

Gabriel Horne popped by her desk at half past noon, sporting a spotlight smile.

"Morning, Antonia! Welcome to the land of the living,” he trumpeted. She winced. “You got my memo, right? Can I see you in my office for a few minutes?"

Toni sipped her coffee and wished she couldn’t hear him through the cotton in her ears.

"Now?" he said, smile undimmed.

She stood delicately, as if balancing a dozen eggs on her head, and followed him with very small steps. She clutched her coffee mug over her heart, willing its contents to work their chemical magic faster.

Maisie Rae was already there, pert and alert as usual, sitting upright with her ankles crossed. Toni raised an eyebrow in greeting and sat on the arm of the other chair. They were seldom called in together, for all their duties overlapped.

Gabriel shut the door and poured himself a midday bourbon. Toni shuddered at the smell of it. "So! Ladies!” he proclaimed. “I just met with the powers that be, and they're thrilled with your work, as always. Especially since we started your weekly sessions with advertising." He sat down and paused, as if expecting some affirmation.

Maisie Rae nodded politely. "How lovely to hear."

It wasn’t the shower of thanks he’d hoped for, judging by his expression, but Gabriel forged ahead. "What they'd like to see from you two going forward is a little more of the uh, y'know, the back and forth. The sparring, the shots across the bow. Right? Readership goes crazy for it! The mailroom tells us you get a lot more letters whenever you two, y’know --” here he made some sound effects with finger guns that were more suited to a seven-year-old boy. “So we decided to make it a regular part of the Lifestyle experience."

"Hngph," Toni huffed. She took a draught of coffee to prevent herself saying any more than that.

"We thought we'd pitch Maisie a few questions that give her a shot at you, Antonia, to get us started." Gabriel pulled out his cigarette case and made a cursory offer, which they both waved away, before lighting his own. "We'll stagger your responses back and forth by a day or two. During the holidays, maybe we could arrange a little peace and goodwill moment? But by the time New Year's resolutions come around -- boom, we're back at it. A rivalry for the ages. Y’know, like -- like cats and dogs! Bonnie and Clyde!"

“Bonnie and Clyde, eh,” Toni echoed.

Maisie Rae, for all her good breeding, had never been gifted at hiding her true first impressions. She looked as if someone had just offered her a slice of Spam and Jell-O pie which circumstances obliged her to both taste and compliment.

"You don't seem excited, Maisie," Gabriel noted, dropping his friendly tone abruptly.

"I -- appreciate the popular appeal of the idea," she said in a measured tone. "However, the actual advice I offer readers -- they know very well that I would never condone that kind of petty sniping, don't you agree? Wouldn't it be --  _ out of character  _ for me to stoop so low, when we have over a decade of columns pointing to my distaste for it?"

As far as gambits went, Toni saw the sense in this one. Editorial had always been attentive to Maisie Rae's character. Gabriel and his red pen ensured that she would always come across as domestic, self-disciplined, charming, sociable, well-educated, and generous, but never overly familiar or proud. She was to have an unspecified number of children, good relations with her extended family, and a vague romantic status that was clearly "coupled" and "happy." She was to live somewhere secure on the edges of the city, in a house with a garden and space to entertain. She did not smoke and drank only in adorably forgivable amounts. If she went out, it was only to venues of class and good taste, and never alone.

Of course, none of this had anything to do with the  _ real _ Maisie Rae Fell, the one who took the train home to a cramped apartment on the North side, drank wine by the bottle after work, smoked surreptitiously in her housecoat on the fire escape, and couldn't so much as boil an egg.

"That's a good point," Gabriel acknowledged. He made a note in his diary. "We'll have Antonia start it then, so you're only acting in self-defense. Nobody would expect you to take it lying down, so --"

"I'd need another inch," Toni interjected flatly.

Gabriel's eyebrows vaulted heavenward. “Excuse me?”

"Either that or let me off an hour earlier," she shrugged. "You want me out  _ that _ late, at all those parties, and wasting part of my column on this? Give me an inch, two if you want us to really get into it. Or else give me an hour back."

Maisie Rae looked up at her, half awestruck by her gumption, half terrified of her audacity. Toni preened a little under the attention, crossing her legs to flash a bit of thigh. She enjoyed nothing so much as appalling her associate. Even hungover, it was fun.

"That -- that's quite a request." Gabriel tapped his pen on the desk. "I'd have to talk to Shadwell and the layout team. And we'd have to lengthen GC as well."

"Make it a big deal then," Toni proposed, off the cuff. "Announce you're giving us more space.  _ ‘The Daily Herald’s  _ Lifestyle pages, now with more Toni and Maisie Rae.’ Ask Bea what'll happen to circulation numbers and ad prices if you do that."

Now Maisie Rae was glaring at her as if she were a traitor. "But isn't it unseemly?" she asked, and then remembered to turn to Gabriel. "Reallocating inches to a manufactured conflict between us? That’s hardly printworthy. There's no reason your only two lady columnists should be at war. We write on completely different topics."

Gabriel scoffed loudly. "Of course you should! That's the reason we have two of you, right? To duke it out? What's the point of having both of your perspectives if you _agree?_ Peacetime doesn't sell papers, sweetheart. War does."

Maisie Rae looked at her sensible shoes and tried valiantly to maintain her composure. Toni gripped her coffee mug til her knuckles turned white.

Gabriel waved his cigarette as if to clear the air, though he was doing the opposite. "Stick around, Maisie; let's discuss your recipe book. Antonia, did you give Tracy your expense reports?"

Toni flashed him her toothy and not-at-all-pleasant smile. "Not yet. If I had a girl, like every other blessed beat reporter, they'd be in on time every week. And you could quit nagging me like a mother hen." 

“But you’re not a beat reporter,” Gabriel said, sounding confused. Subtext had never been his strong suit.

Toni made for the exit. "That all, Gabey?"

"Just get those receipts in. And close the door."

Toni lowered her sunglasses and smirked at Maisie Rae. "They've got you doing a recipe book? Won't  _ that _ be something." She shut the door with far more force than was strictly necessary, then grimaced as the noise punished her more than it did anybody else.

She went for more coffee, but Reggie Sandalphon the copy editor drained the pot just as she got to the kitchen. He whistled on his way out. Toni silently alphabetized every curse word she’d ever heard of as she brewed another by herself.

\+ + +

_ Loyal Readers: _

_ We have a confession (though we won’t be prancing to the booths in St. Patrick’s to make it): we swore to you  _ **_never_ ** _ to be caught dead attending the opera. And we lied through our teeth, darlings. Following a hot tip, we dressed to the nines, rented jewels from Lucia’s, and broke out our brass binoculars in the balcony at  _ Aida.  _ The view was excellent. Despite the obnoxious hullaballoo onstage, we were treated to a riveting and romantic show in the box seats nearest the proscenium. Such poignant looks! Such necking! Such heavy petting in public! _

_ Much like the tedious opera, we fear a tragic fourth act for these two. Their association may migrate from my column to the front pages of this very publication. She is an actress (if someone not yet nineteen and never yet cast can be so described). He is a Secretary of note, currently serving, and we  _ **_don’t_ ** _ mean an excellent typist. A noteworthy political career may be on the line, intrepid readers, and you heard it here first. _

_ Also spotted at  _ Aida _ was Geraldo Muñoz, always a delight to see outside of his nightclub, The Octopus Lounge. He invited us to stop in and hear a new Latin jazz band in residence there, the Costa Cats, and was he ever on the money! We tied up our opera gown and put in a few hours, and we’d have salsaed our sore feet off with a certain handsome someone -- the Mr. F you may remember from last summer! -- if we hadn’t been swept off our feet by Mr. Clark Benedict, star of stage and screen! He danced a rumba with yours truly -- and then several more, including a rather intimate foxtrot, with the newly divorced Mrs. Eugenie Livingston. She wore a little Leslienne number in red that had us swooning with envy; look up their shortest cocktail dress this season and you’ll see the one we mean. The couple allowed us to print their names, so rest assured that we will follow up on their surprising yet inspiring association in days to come.  
_

_ The evening was long and loud, but entirely satisfying; a modern lady with good sense wants not only to be alive but to  _ **_live_ ** _. My darlings, if you’ve never rented jewels, spied on strangers with binoculars, tied your skirts up, sipped champagne til you’re dizzy, danced with movie stars, and taken the last train home -- whatever are you doing with yourselves? And what might you regret? One can only learn so much of life from books. A lady “improving herself” and “holding back” never has any fun. Nor will she ever experience anything worth reporting about her weekends, to bosses or to anybody else. One pities the souls so constrained by the opinions of others that they fail to impress themselves. _

_ G.G. _

_ Send tips, leads, and invitations to Gossip and Glamour c/o The Daily Herald, address below. Anonymity guaranteed. Orders now open for Toni Crowley’s book ‘The Modern Woman’s Field Guide to Dating,’ a combination address book and reference handbook, reissued this month in a compact size with unlabeled black cover for your discretion. _

\+ + +

It had been  _ their _ park bench for so long that Maisie Rae was quite put out when she arrived and found it occupied. She tutted and paced by the waterfront, where she could keep a weather eye on the offending octogenarians until they left. Ducks and geese scattered before her. She had sensible shoes, a long umbrella, and the sturdy gait of a woman with purpose; they dared not cross her, though she traveled only the same few yards back and forth until the grass lay flat.

Toni arrived about ten minutes later, wearing a jaunty beret and a scowl that discouraged most anyone from approaching, even if they did recognize her.

Luckily, Maisie Rae had only to wear her everyday spectacles and a pillbox hat, and nobody gave her a second look. The invisibility that came with being an unexceptional middle-aged woman suited her just fine.

Toni glared at the aged interlopers, hands thrust deep in her pockets. "The nerve of some people," she muttered in their direction.

"They'll be on their way soon enough," Maisie Rae returned cheerfully, feeling much better now that she had someone to feel better than.

"You realize you're ankle deep in goose mousse over there?"

"All the more reason to dress for any weather. You're stuck on the pavement in those dreadful things, aren't you?"

Toni did a little kick step in the high heels she was never seen without. "I'd only be  _ stuck _ if I couldn't get somewhere I  _ wanted _ to go, and your fertilizer fen holds little to no appeal." She spun, stomped, and stared hard at the couple on the bench.

"If you can move them with your mind, I'll be awfully impressed."

"'S worth a shot."

"We could always find another bench."

"Shhh, angel, concentrating."

Whether by dint of Toni's concentration or coincidence, the couple stood up and shuffled on their way. The bench was reclaimed swiftly by its rightful owners. Maisie Rae settled into what she considered the best seat in town for peace and quiet and people watching, head held high and hands folded in her lap. Toni threw an elbow over the seat back, crossed her legs, and adopted a pose that somehow appeared both elegant and anatomically impossible.

"First of all," said Toni, "Gabey can go to hell."

Maisie Rae grimaced. "The state of his soul isn't so much my concern as his implication that if we aren't squabbling for the entertainment of the masses, one of us is redundant."

"He's always thought one of us is redundant. He just can't decide which one from day to day."

"That's no secret, but he didn't have to say so outright. It’s terribly rude."

"'S fine. The bean counters know we're the best thing they've got going. You bring in more subscriptions than any earthquakes or four alarm fires, I dig up stories on the cheap, and neither of us gets a girl."

Maisie Rae looked straight ahead and Did Not Blush. "Do you...want a girl so badly?" she asked.

Toni turned to her and tilted her chin just so. "You know I do, you nincompoop. Mention it every third day. Why, don't you?"

"I could -- I could imagine things being simpler with one," she answered carefully.

"Can you imagine --" Toni stretched out and softened up at last, the way she only did when they were alone. "Someone bringing you coffee? Memorizing your schedule? Taking care of the little things for you?"

"You make it sound so tempting," Maisie Rae sighed. She chanced a look up at Toni's sunglasses. The two lady journalists shared a faint smile, but no sooner was it exchanged than they both turned away and independently shook off some thought or other.

"Aaaanyhow," Toni drawled. "Either they get me a secretary soon or I break into Gabey's office, drink all his top shelf booze, and pour coffee into every desk drawer."

"You wouldn't!"

"Oh, I would in a heartbeat. You saying you wouldn't help if you were there with me?"

Maisie Rae looked helplessly heavenward. "Not only is it morally wrong, it's 'out of character.'"

_ "Ha!"  _ Toni barked. "Dear Good Counsel: my sworn adversary at work is breaking, entering, drinking heavily, and undertaking property damage all at once, but the bastard deserves it; should I help?"

"Dear friend of GC," Maisie Rae countered without missing a beat, "that all depends on whether you have a sturdy hairpin to pick the lock, gloves to hide the fingerprints, and an airtight alibi."

"Ah, I see the problem. No hairpins."

"Not enough hair, really. Too fine to do a thing with. I'm useless in a caper."

"Aannh, it suits you. You 'n your sensible hair. Sensible shoes."

"I'd make a better getaway if pursued, that's for certain," Maisie Rae noted, sounding just a bit smug. "Sensible shoes are a kind of freedom for a woman."

"And high heels are a kind of weapon," Toni grinned. "Knew that from the first minute I put them on."

Maisie Rae couldn't resist taking a moment to discreetly consider Toni's high heels, and the shapely legs they adorned. "You know, I'll never understand how you manage to navigate in those."

"Practice, angel." Toni relaxed deeper into her sprawl. "And a boatload of spite. So, what's all this about a cookbook?"

That prompted a heavy sigh from Maisie Rae. "The wedding guide sold so well, they've smelled blood in the water. I'm sure they have a list for me now: the essential guides to a dozen things Maisie Rae has never experienced. I doubt I’ll ever hear the end of it."

"Poor thing. Well, poor editorial, really. Won't they be in for a shock when they learn you can't even reheat chicken soup from the deli without phoning for help?"

"That was  _ one time, _ Crowley!" Maisie Rae protested.

"And you'll never live it down. Not as long as I draw breath."

"Yes, well, they want to publish, and they won't publish anything they think runs contrary to my image. So I’m sure they’ll arrange something."

"Right, your  _ image." _ Toni tilted her head back lazily in fond exasperation, glasses glinting in the evening sun. "Who's ghostwriting it, then?"

At that, Maisie Rae took out her handkerchief, just to have something to twist. "Don't hate me, my dear, but -- I was hoping -- that you -- might?" She shook her head at herself once the words were out. She hadn't meant for it to sound quite so needy and uncertain, but there it was.

Toni stared at her, absorbing every word. Then, without warning, she kicked her heels up and cackled for all she was worth. A flock of startled ducks took flight.

_ "Me!"  _ she hooted. "The Herald’s Mistress of Mayhem! And you, the Domestic Icon! You want  _ me _ to write your cookbook!"

"Well it's just -- you're  _ such _ an excellent cook; you have the most unique ideas, and I had thought, perhaps, that --"

"Oh, I love it I love it!" Toni gasped, slamming the bench with one gloved hand. "Of course I'll do it, angel, of  _ course. _ This’ll entertain me for months straight, I'll be laughing up my sleeve and nobody’ll know why."

Maisie Rae blew out a long-held breath and rolled her eyes. She couldn't decide whether to be grateful or indignant as Toni's laughing fit stretched on. Either way, she was happy to have her on board. Confessing to editorial that she'd hardly cooked a day in her life would have been quite a meeting.

"The question is," Toni chortled as she'd recovered, "what are you willing to offer in trade?"

"Ay, there’s the rub,” Maisie Rae admitted. “I’d be greatly indebted to you. What do you need?"

"Oh, angel, have I got ideas for you. I hope you enjoyed the opera?"

A soft, sincere joy crossed Maisie Rae's face. "Oh, it was simply divine. You'd have liked the costumes, at least; they did a very modern interpretation. And their Radamés was just exceptional! I could feel his voice in my chest, I was  _ so _ moved." She put a hand on her heart unconsciously at the memory of it.

Toni watched her intently. "You're a natural at espionage, too."

"Well. I could  _ pretend _ I didn't enjoy that part as well, but you know me better than that."

"I really do, don't I?" grinned Toni.  


Maisie Rae bowed her head and smiled helplessly, blushing a little. "After all this time, you certainly do. So what other uses might you have for a -- what was it? A prudish, pigeon-toed, fuddy-duddy?"

"Kitchenbound. We can't forget kitchenbound, can we, Little Miss Chicken Soup?"

"In my defense, Crowley, I was ill and addled at the time."

“‘S no excuse for telephoning a deli at two in the morning instead of asking me.” Toni checked her truly unreasonable wristwatch of the month and uncrossed her lovely calves to stand up. "Well! I'm off to corrupt a few debutantes and crash a diplomat’s wedding reception. But rest assured -- I'll be bored out of my mind the entire time, except when I'm dreaming up ghost recipes for my little ghostwriting project."

"Ghost recipes, really!"

"And I'll keep my ears open about any people of interest who might, y’know, be at play premieres or avant garde films coming up.” Toni touched her red curls and her beret out of habit, always mindful of her appearance, always groomed to play the part. “Bernstein's conducting at the Pantages next week. Somebody’s bound to be there. I'll ask around."

"Oh Crowley, would you?" beamed Maisie Rae. She stood up without any of Toni's fluid grace, but then she’d never minded leaving the flash and glamour to her colleague. Unlike nearly every man she’d ever met, Toni had never once compared their looks, never once made her feel inadequate.

"Such hardships you undertake on my behalf, angel. Opera, really? Eugh." Toni smoothed her coat and thrust hands deep into her pockets. "Safe trip home 'n all."

"I can't thank you enough, Crowley. Mind how you go," Maisie Rae called after her counterpart as she walked away, hips swaying, shoes clacking sharply, out of the park and into the descending twilight.

\+ + +

_ Dear Good Counsel, _

_ Mother makes me wear stockings, even though none of my friends wear them anymore. They’re uncomfortable and hot, and I get laughed at. I’ll never meet a boy this way! Help! - P.M. _

_ Dear P.M., _

_ Try to keep your head, my dear; your friends can sense insecurity, and it is your insecurity, not your wardrobe, that invites teasing.  _

_ If you hold your head high and carry yourself with poise and grace, you’ll find the laughter will fade quickly and nobody will pay any attention to what is or isn’t on your legs. Why would you want to spend time with girls -- or boys -- with such poor manners that they would mock someone’s appearance? I certainly hope you never stoop to that yourself. _

_ As for your mother, one hopes she isn’t so unreasonable as to have you in woollens in July. (I prefer Summer Breeze stockings from Barnaby’s, myself; lighter than air and they never run.) I suspect your mother is concerned for your virtue, since hems seem to creep in only one direction the last few years -- perhaps owing to questionable role models who flaunt more and more bare skin in fashion and film. Just because other women feel license to show the world their assets does not mean you should do the same. Their bare legs may draw hoots and hollers, but that attention is short-lived and conditional, and it can pivot quickly to loathing. Pity the girl who needs attention so badly she has to solicit it with her legs; for all she is looked at, the woman within will be rendered invisible by the distraction without. Your mother may understand more about good ways to meet young men -- the kind worth meeting, that is -- than you give her credit for. _

_ While you live at home, respect your Mother’s wishes, if only for the sake of a harmonious household. _

_ G.C. _

_ Send your questions to Good Counsel c/o The Daily Herald at the address below, or mail order Maisie Rae Fell’s classic booklet ‘Elegant Entertaining for Every Home,’ the essential guide to party planning and hostessing. _

\+ + +

Fridays came and Fridays went. They meant nothing much to Toni Crowley, for whom they were more like Wednesday work nights, nor to Maisie Rae Fell, who preferred to spend evenings at home reading a book and eating takeout, regardless of the day of the week.

This Friday, however, they were both duty-bound to be at an after-work gathering for some colleague's retirement. Reporters, editors, artists, and admen had farewell parties like this one, with whiskey and dancing and backslaps. Secretaries, receptionists, operators, and computers came and went without any collective observance. Sometimes whispers around the fourth floor would make a departure date known in time for a few cards or flowers to appear on the desk of the lady in question. That desk would belong to a younger girl with a similar hair color within a week.

The party was at the billiard hall just across the way, a place that the older men loved, the younger men mocked, and the women dreaded on account of the cigar smoke that permeated their hair and clothing.

"Hell's bells," Toni grumbled as the heavy doors swung closed behind her. Toni knew parties, and this was no kind of party. The stogie stench was awful and the lighting was worse. She could already tell this would be awfully dull, unless it turned awfully dramatic. Even then it would be the dullest sort of drama.

She discreetly ordered a soda and lime -- though she told the bartender to charge it to the office as a gin and tonic -- and lounged on the edge of a pool table sipping it haughtily while she took the lay of the land. She didn't know retiree Eric Lejeune particularly well, and she didn't care to. He was growing red-faced and talking loudly to a few of his cronies about the economy. Everyone else from the fourth floor was apparently racing to see who could get regrettable-decisions-over-happy-hour-drunk first.

Once she was satisfied she understood the room, the people in it, and what they wanted, Toni got to work.

She started with a promenade around the perimeter to show Bea and Gabriel that she was in attendance. She infiltrated a group of new girls, complimented their looks, showed off her shoes, and intimated something mildly scandalous to get them giggling. She traded friendly barbs with Tracy, the Office Manager, the only other woman over thirty in the room. Last of all, Toni smiled and bobbed before the man of the hour to pay respects, staying just long enough to titter gleefully when he made crude jokes about what he'd have done to her in his youth. She twirled away with a merry wave and a tempting smile, dodging between two of his best hunting buddies to make good her escape. Her every social obligation was seen to inside of three minutes.

So she settled in for a dull half hour of Making An Appearance, which was her least favorite part of the society beat, since she was expected to limit her scowling and pot-stirring and personal remarks. To pass the time, she imagined her way through the other scenes she planned to saunter into tonight. Scenes she was at least getting paid to Make Appearances At.

It was insulting, really, to be at a bar and not get paid. A waste of her unique skill set. Especially when the only person who could hold Toni's interest off-the-clock had yet to turn up.

As sobriety abandoned the room, one soul at a time, the volume rose. The men brayed and boasted down the bar. The young women huddled near Toni, and she let their inane chatter roll in one ear and out the other. She counted down in her head, waiting for the inevitable dynamic shift. So predictable, these work dos.

Right on cue, Reggie Sandalphon made a beeline for the de facto women’s side of the room. The ladies broke formation and scattered like billiard balls, and suddenly the office party turned co-ed and complicated. Toni rolled her eyes in open disgust. It was one of the many perks of making sunglasses a signature fashion statement.

Luckily Nathan had landed nearby, and he hadn’t yet been cornered by the pretty young things who usually tailed him. Toni stepped to his side in solidarity, and he nodded in silent welcome.

"What a gas," she remarked drily.

"Thrill-a-minute," he agreed.

"Hey, I liked your fashion week spread," she told him, nudging his arm with her elbow. "The mockups you posted were dynamite."

"That's nice. You're the only one who did."

Toni turned to him sharply and repressed the urge to clench her fist. "They didn't  _ use _ it?"

Nathan adjusted his round glasses and grimaced as he struggled to sound diplomatic. "They, ah...they went in a more traditional direction."

Toni's nostrils flared on his behalf. "Stodgy old squares. Wouldn't know genius if they tripped over it in the geriatric ward."

"That explains why they haven't given you an actual beat yet."

"And why should they?" Toni asked airily. "I dig up all their best leads and sell fashion ads to boot, at half the paycheck of the boys downstairs. Then Hastur sits back in his office and gets bylines on the stories that I broke with blood, sweat, ‘n sore feet. Seems to me they've got things all worked out."

"Well." Nathan raised his beer. "Here's to retirements. Maybe if enough of them do before we do..." he drank instead of finishing the sentence.

"...Then I'll get a press card someday, and you'll be head of the art department," Toni proposed.

"Or at least get a spread printed after putting twelve hours into it," Nathan added flatly.

Toni looked across the way at Gabriel and shook her head, vividly imagining the sound of his desk drawers sloshing closed. Nathan Device was by far the best illustrator and layout designer at the Herald, only nobody seemed to know it yet. His work was modern, compelling, and high concept, years ahead of its time in Toni's opinion. Nathan was focused and talented and absolutely wasted on Lifestyle's management.

"Have you thought about my offer?" Toni asked. "I'm going to a few private studio parties next weekend. You really ought to meet the whole West Riverside crew. They'd understand what you're doing better than anybody here."

"Shadwell tells me they're all doped-up Communists," Nathan commented wryly.

"Yeah, well, Shadwell's a dope, and he thinks maple trees are Communist come October," Toni returned. "You should tag along. I've only  _ barely _ been arrested there."

"Communists? Ooh, are we talking about Shadwell?" Maisie Rae exclaimed in delight.

"Ngk!" Toni squawked, starting in surprise. Maisie Rae had materialized at Nathan's elbow, bright and solid and straightforward as always, a breath of fresh air in this crowd. Or any crowd.

The jukebox struck up in the background, playing a sentimental love song from a decade back just a little too loud. Coworkers who surely should not have been dancing together started dancing together.

“I’ve met some very nice Communists, actually," said Maisie Rae. “What mischief are you two plotting?”

"Toni's trying to persuade me to spend a night in jail with her," Nathan told Maisie Rae, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

"Yes, well, she  _ would. _ Toni confuses getting in trouble with having a personality," scoffed Maisie Rae, somehow looking down her nose at them, even though she was the shortest of the three. "And how are you, Mister Device? I was  _ so _ impressed by your designs for next week's insert! A simply breathtaking use of the white space on the page, I couldn't stop thinking about it."

While they caught up, Toni noted that her assigned nemesis had bothered to reapply her lipstick and don some pearls for the party. Perhaps Gabriel had given her another talking to about appearances. Toni sipped her drink and meditatively envisioned the contents of an entire coffee carafe drenching Gabriel's rolodex, curling the cards, staining the oak desk beneath, and dripping onto his favorite white chair.

"Anyway, better luck next time; you're so prescient with your layouts, the magazines are always copying you a year after the fact,” Maisie Rae was saying to Nathan. “I  _ do _ wish the bigwigs upstairs paid any attention at all to contemporary art. You’re woefully underappreciated my dear boy, but I do believe your day will come." Nathan didn't seem quite as optimistic, but he nodded politely. Everybody knew good manners went a long way with Maisie Rae.

Everybody except Toni. "Where the hell have you been, Fell?" she demanded. "Tatting doilies at the desk again?"

"Oh, you must forgive me, I had  _ ever _ so many fan letters to answer," Maisie Rae cooed in a saccharine tone. "It takes time to correspond in complete sentences, but  _ some _ of us still choose to make the effort. Already dressed for an adventurous evening out, are we, dear?"

Toni did a sassy pirouette to show off her bare back and short skirt. "Do you like it? It was made this century, you know. This is what clothing looks like nowadays."

"Does it really! Fascinating." Maisie Rae smiled her prim-yet-teasing tight-lipped smile, the one Toni liked, the one reserved for her.

"No bustle, no hoops, no boning. Not too shocking for you, I hope."

Maisie Rae looked her up and down. "I'm sure it will earn you exactly the kinds of compliments you intend it to. Is the office paying tonight?"

"They are," Nathan confirmed.

"Ah. Do excuse me a moment." Maisie Rae headed directly for the bar.

Nathan watched her go. "Speaking of underappreciated," he mused, and sipped his beer.

"She needs a girl," Toni muttered.

"So do you."

"Two extra staff? When we're clearly born with the right body parts to be our own secretaries? Tell that to Bea and Gabriel."

"The art department shares one between all of us," Nathan reasoned. "I don't see why you couldn't share somebody. Maybe with Shadwell?"

Toni let slip a choked noise of revulsion at the thought of sharing  _ anything _ with Shadwell. But the thought had some merit. Shadwell laid out the crosswords, word searches, bridge, chess, trivia, and all the other marginalia that kept their shared page of  _ The Daily Herald _ on kitchen tables long after the rest was thrown out. He tended to ask inappropriate questions, mutter to himself, and be a bit snappish, in that post-war way that was both something of a pity and highly off-putting. 

But like Toni and Maisie Rae, he was often the last at the office, because doing his job and keeping up with correspondence was double duty. And one assistant between the three of them would be better than no assistant at all.

Toni frowned deeply in a manner that Gabriel would call unbecoming. Maisie Rae returned with a generously poured glass of wine. "Ooh, have you had a terrible idea?" she asked Toni excitedly in a low voice.

"What makes you say that?"

"That's your idea face. Take a powder in five?"

Toni nodded subtly and banished the frown. "Hate to leave you to your own devices, Device, but I'd better circulate," she told Nathan. "Good luck fending off the goslings."

Nathan suddenly looked queasy. He started downing his beer rapidly as the two lady columnists abandoned him, heading in opposite directions.  It was a truth universally acknowledged that a single, handsome, softspoken, mysterious foreign artist with a sexy accent must be in want of a wife. And the rotating cast of twenty-something ladies of the fourth floor -- most of them doing time at a typewriter until they could find a husband and clock out -- knew that very well. Heads were already turning his way now that the old birds had flown.

Toni made her way slowly through the smoky room, calculating and composing her thoughts. With an assistant, she could take a real lunch break. She could get a full night's sleep. She could stay home on her weekend, Tuesday and Wednesday. She could practice recipes for the cookbook. Maybe she'd even catch a movie with Maisie Rae and leave her opera glasses at home. The question, of course, was how to formulate an argument with the numbers, something that would persuade the bean counters downstairs that it was worth it. Her case slowly crystallized as she approached the far wall, the ladies’ room, and freedom.

But the intended powder room parley was not to be. Toni was seized at the waist by a tipsy photographer who wanted to talk about  _ exactly _ what she should wear to their next shoot. Dick Hastur egged him on, while Harry Ligur swapped her empty cocktail glass for a full one. "You're just so much  _ fun _ to work with!" Damian was shouting in her ear. "We'll get you in green!" Toni smiled the good-time-fun-girl smile she used on men like these, though her attention was elsewhere.

Across the bar, Gabriel had Maisie Rae by the hand. He was ebulliently attempting to spin her on the dance floor, even as she resisted being spun. His voice boomed so loud that Toni could hear him over the din: "Come on, loosen up! Have a little fun, Miss Priss!" Maisie Rae held her splashing red wine at arm's length and smiled her endearingly-out-of-her-element smile. Toni saw her say, "Oh dear." Gabriel passed her off to Reggie, who did his damnedest to dance with a lady who was not in any way dancing. It looked like Maisie Rae was about to break out her trusty Two Left Feet routine.

She hadn't been listening to a word her captors said, but Toni's instincts told her it was time for a Marlene Dietrich-style delighted laugh at their cleverness, head thrown back, hair flouncing. As usual, her instincts were right. The men were just dazzled enough to let her spin free of their little blockade and cha cha cha away to the dance floor. They followed, all compliments and jokes and inebriated grins and wayward hands.

Later that night she couldn't even remember what it was Ligur had said to make her throw her entire drink in his face. 

She was Toni Crowley after all; her reputation depended on getting in a good drink toss at least once a month.

She did remember Hastur's high-pitched shrieks of laughter, because they made such a lovely counterpoint to Reggie Sandalphon hooting "Ooh! oh! ooh!" as he hobbled in a little circle on his injured instep. Maisie Rae's hands fluttered around him as she expressed matronly concern and offered apologies for her clumsiness.

The party roared their approval of all the action. Even Ligur was chuffed to be the center of attention, if for all the wrong reasons. His friends clapped him on the back and alternated bellows of praise and obscenities. "That's our Toni!" Gabriel declared, clapping his hands together. "Now it's a real party, hey? Just like in G and G!"

Toni smirked. This crowd wouldn't know a real party if it ran them over with a parade float.

She always knew when the moment was right to make a fabulous exit. Raising her hands triumphantly over her head, she curtsied to wild applause, spun round, and then sashayed back to her coat and hat.

"I'll see all you sorry clowns later," she sang out while all eyes were on her. "I've got about a dozen dance floors and two dozen crooked politicians to tear up tonight!" She pulled both swinging doors open and strutted out into the dark, and so began her true workday.

It riled Toni’s protective instincts, leaving Maisie Rae behind, but the old girl could hold her own. Twelve years of whatever-they-had proved that beyond a doubt. They'd talk about everything soon enough.

Toni wondered whether she could hit a payphone between the afterparty and the after-afterparty tonight, and whether her partner in crime would still be awake if she did. Knowing her, Maisie Rae would probably be writing Sandalphon a flowery apology note for the fun of it, laughing at him from behind every elegant handwritten word. Yes, thought Toni Crowley, quickening her surefooted stride across the city -- as long as a hot stove wasn’t involved, Maisie Rae Fell could hold her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miscellany from this chapter:
> 
> \- Computers were people once. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some bad things exist in the world, and their existence is acknowledged in this chapter (although none of these things actually occur within the story). If you want a complete list of the bad things that are briefly mentioned in a list, see the end notes.
> 
> There are also some dead doves in this chapter. Not like, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, just some actual literal dead doves. The situation is very funny to me (and based on a true story), but if that will not be funny to you, I completely understand -- and you can skip it by forgoing the second half of the Gossip & Glamour column about the wedding. Stop when you read about the peacocks. The peacocks are fine, I promise. In fact, the peacocks win.

_Dear Good Counsel,_

_I've just got engaged to the man of my dreams! But he and I have different hopes for our first few years. I want to finish college and work a spell, but he says we should start a family right away. I do want children, but I enjoy school and my social life. Is there any compromise for us? - J. L._

_Dear J.L.,_

_Congratulations on your engagement. I suggest you discuss with your fiancé, in a hopeful, friendly tone, both of your ideal individual futures as you imagine them unfolding. The happiness and fulfillment of_ both _parties in a marriage will be important to the success of the family -- and ensuring that you have compatible definitions of ‘happy’ and ‘fulfilled’ is a step best taken in advance._

 _There's no hurry to skip your college and working years, if you want to enjoy them. How would your intended feel if you’d asked him to do the same? Bear in mind that his dream of family is still viable, should you have children a few years later -- but your dream of work and education is_ not, _should you have children now._

_He has nothing to lose if you wait. You have much to lose if you rush. Therefore, allowing yourselves more time before starting a family is the clear compromise. If he demands that you, and only you, give up what you want, that is not a compromise, but a sacrifice. And an unnecessary one at that; you can both have what you hope for in this case, with a little patience and consideration._

_Just as a wise wife does not dictate career decisions to her husband, but instead offers advice and a listening ear, the wise husband ought not to "give orders" when it comes to major decisions about the home and family. Let such important decisions be made together, with sincere regard for the needs of both parties._

_Of course, some men are raised to believe that giving orders is their natural role in a marriage. But they would change their tune if they could experience the joy of a partnership built on mutual respect rather than demands. If your prospective husband is this sort of man -- convinced that his word is law, unwilling to consider your feelings -- I cannot recommend becoming any more closely entangled with him than you are now._

_G.C._

_P.S. Confidential to F.C. in Richmond: I entreat you to employ a new family physician more inclined to hear out your legitimate and very real concerns._

_Send your questions to Good Counsel c/o The Daily Herald at the address below, and order Lifestyle's fashion guidebook ‘Vogue at Home,' with tips from Maisie Rae on fetching styles and sturdy materials that hold up to the demands of a busy household._

_+++_

They got their girl.

Ursula Newton was taller by a head than almost anybody else in the office, even taller than Gabriel. She had knees and elbows everywhere, and she was forever carrying one more thing than would fit in her clumsy hands. Her glasses were thick, her jaw was a bit square, her hair a bit disobedient, and her makeup instincts a bit lacking.

Her desk was a mess, her sleeves always had ink stains, and her typewriter ribbon was forever snarled. She made excellent coffee, but tended to slosh it in transit. She once created a minor avalanche in the supply closet that took her an hour to clean up.

She was perfect.

Maisie Rae liked that Miss Newton had gone to college and actually finished her degree, and appreciated that she was bookish, humble, honest, and followed directions. Toni was overjoyed to have a girl on the floor who looked and acted like a _person,_ with actual _features_ and _characteristics,_ who had things on her mind besides catching a man with a butterfly net.

Miss Newton had started as a computer, then transferred to the phones as an operator, but she had an unnatural gift for breaking any machine less sturdy than a Smith-Corona. That was how she wound up on the fourth floor at a desk not far from Maisie Rae's. That, and Gabriel had decided to select someone _so_ obviously unlike the other secretaries that she would stand out like corn among beans -- almost as if he were mocking the three Lifestyle mainstays for whom Miss Newton worked, and their request for an assistant. Almost.

But Gabriel's prank was everyone else's gain. All the other typists and secretaries were immediately friendly with Miss Newton, aware as they were that being taller than most men was a terrible misfortune (and therefore she would be no competition). Maisie Rae felt protective of her immediately, looking after her comfort and encouraging her daily with smiles and praise (and regularly re-threading her tangled typewriter ribbon). Toni berated and scowled at Miss Newton, as she did to everyone (but only after she’d taken the anxious young thing out for an ice cream sundae, to explain that the scowls and berating were nothing personal, and that cutting remarks were how she showed approval). 

Miss Newton even managed Shadwell somehow. His rants and wild ideas seemed not to ruffle the girl, at least not any more than her moderately ruffled resting state. He gave her the most bizarre tasks -- on her second day, he asked her to cut snippets out of an entire box of magazines with scissors -- and she complied without complaining, which was faster in every case than trying to reason with the man.

Best of all, though: Maisie Rae’s desk was right on the way to Miss Newton's. Toni now had excuses to breeze by and snap at her rival whenever she pleased. Or leave bonbons in her desk drawer on the sly. Whichever.

The peace of mind ushered in by Miss Newton’s arrival was better than they’d ever imagined.

The first time Toni came back from a real weekend off, _two full days_ well-slept and relaxed, she bent menacingly over her secretary's desk and hissed, "What am I s’posed to do with all this bloody free time? Join a book club?"

"Does...that mean you want some coffee?" Miss Newton asked hesitantly.

Toni just glowered and went to her desk -- to _write,_ for a change, instead of fussing with memos and phone calls and the calendar for two hours. On the way she knocked the reference books on Maisie Rae’s desk all askew, and grinned with satisfaction at the mild harumph that ensued.

Miss Newton correctly intuited that Toni did in fact want coffee and gangled off to fetch it.

After which a loud crash emanated from the break room. 

Maisie Rae hopped up to see what had happened, along with several of the girls. Toni sauntered after, looking disinterested and unhurried. She arrived last but the girls parted to let her through to the front.

"Gosh," she said.

An ex-coffee carafe lay in shards across the floor. The kitchen was flooding with a thin brown puddle that started at Miss Newton's feet. But the poor girl herself was frozen, hands clapped over her mouth, staring down in horror at one coffee-soaked Nathan Device.

Nathan, holding an art proof high overhead to keep it safe, appeared just as startled as Miss Newton. He blinked in astonishment through his round tortoiseshell spectacles, and looked to Toni for help. She smirked at him and bounced her eyebrows in amusement.

Maisie Rae was already retrieving towels from the cupboard for the badly shaken Miss Newton. "Fetch a broom and a mop from the closet, won’t you?” she asked the gaggle of useless gawkers. “Somebody? Anybody? There's a dear, Miss Erickson, thank you." 

Miss Newton thawed enough to begin apologizing and flapping a towel at Nathan, while he sputtered that it was all his fault and _she_ was covered in coffee too and he should’ve looked where he was going, and he hadn’t caught her name yet, so sorry, what was it?

It was a comical scene. For all his chiseled good looks, Nathan Device was not particularly tall, and he was very much apologizing _up._

Toni sensibly rescued the artwork. Maisie Rae handed a broom to Nathan and a mop to Ursula, and then started to wipe spatters off the walls and counters. Toni kicked glass toward the dustpan.

But after observing the brilliant artist and the unassuming secretary for a minute -- still locked in their mutual fluster and stammered assurances -- Toni took Maisie Rae by the elbow and gestured with her sharp chin that they should go.

Maisie Rae started to protest. Toni rolled her eyes and leaned closer to whisper in her colleague's ear. "Nope. Leave it. They've got this."

"Oh? _Ohhhh,"_ murmured Maisie Rae, taking a second look at the tableau. “Fascinating.” She tugged her elbow free and interrupted the two jittery young things with a maternal tone of voice: 

"When you're quite finished in here, dears, you'd better both run down to Barnaby's and get something else to wear for the rest of the day."

"Who, me?" squeaked Miss Newton. "Us?"

"Yes, _you,_ y'look like a matched set of appaloosas," Toni scoffed, waving Nathan’s art proof about. "Have a new skirt on me, kid, pick out anything you like. Better yet, make him pick it out. He's the one with the eye for fashion on this floor."

"But I, but it was all my -- I should, I mean, shouldn't I pay for --" Nathan faltered, adjusting his tie, uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

“Maybe,” Toni shrugged.

"Oh dear, it looks likely to rain, too," Maisie Rae clucked warmly. "Nathan, you must be _sure_ she makes it there and back. Take my umbrella. If you’re away through lunch, Ursula dear, just stay out and find something nice to eat. Domenico's is lovely, you know? Their fonduta -- ohhhh, and the tiramisu..." Maisie Rae's gaze drifted heavenward, transported as she always was by the thought of dessert. Toni poked her in the ribs fondly. "Oh! Yes. Right. Very good. Well, toodle-pip!"

 _"Toodle-pip?"_ Toni groaned as they turned away.

"Maisie!" Gabriel boomed from his office doorway. "A word?"

Toni’s groan became a growl.

Maisie Rae Fell nodded, putting on her whatever-could-this-be-about smile, and she obligingly went where she was summoned. As she always did. Gabriel closed the office door behind her. Toni tossed her head in defiance of _someone_ or _something,_ as if anybody cared, and returned to her desk.

"It’s Maisie _Rae,"_ she spat under her breath as she sat down.

The clack of the typewriter was satisfyingly kinetic and angry, but the bracing noise alone wasn’t inspiring anything worth writing. Hopefully the kitchen cleanup wouldn't take much longer. She still needed that coffee. Toni typed nursery rhymes and tongue twisters and then a few angry words at Bea (never to be sent) in protest of the latest round of advertisers she was expected to please -- a travel agency? _Really?_ Knives? A bank? Clearly she needed to concoct a fictional crime and a prearranged getaway. Gossip and Glamour: the serial fiction spin-off.

She couldn’t help glancing at Gabriel’s office door every thirty seconds.

“Updates, Toni,” sang a familiar voice. Adam, a runner from the city newsroom downstairs, plopped a stack of notes next to her Olivetti. He sat on the edge of her desk like a schoolkid to wait while she reviewed them.

“You’re early,” Toni grumbled. “Don’t come before two.”

 _“You’re_ early,” said Adam. “Pepper saw you in the lobby at ten.”

Adam and his newshound friends crossed Toni’s path more often every week. Young and fresh-faced and sharp, they genuinely felt like the next generation at the Herald. Relaxed. Unbothered. Uninterested in climbing ladders or getting hitched or impressing superiors. They just wanted to write the news, and they seemed content to start at the bottom, running errands as lowly as this one.

Toni saved them her meanest scowls and her sharpest barbs, but that was a compliment. She liked all of them -- especially Adam -- and so far they seemed to like her. It was essential that they continue liking her. They were her direct-albeit-unsanctioned line to the newsroom, an institution closed to her since the boys all came home from the war so long ago.

“Anything come of the Johnson story?” she asked as she shuffled through the pile of public records, old news clippings, a few handwritten notes. Whatever Hastur didn’t want, or didn’t want to deal with.

“Hastur’s working on it,” Adam said, swinging his legs. “Hypothetically,” he amended, in a much lower voice.

“What -- what’s _this,_ he wants me to go to a church? Is he --” Toni smacked the papers down and rolled her eyes. Not that Adam could see it through the glasses. “The _hell_ kind of cover does he think a gossip reporter has for visiting a convent? Why can’t he do anything resembling what he’s employed to do? Takes him a bloody year to chase down a story because he never leaves his desk.”

“Should I tell him you’re not going?”

“Tell him that I’m not his secretary, and that he can chase his own bylines for a change instead of stealing mine.” She put her face in her hands. “No. Don’t tell him that. Tell him...tell him I was too busy to talk about it just now.”

“How long till you move downstairs? Or upstairs?” Adam asked quietly. “So I can run carbon copies around for an actual reporter?”

“Not how it works, pretty boy,” Toni drawled. “You’ll have an office before I do.”

“Anything to send back to him?”

“Not today, just had my weekend. Last night I turned in early and didn’t think about work one whit.” She shooed him off her desk and he hopped down. “Maybe tomorrow.” 

“Ta, then. Tomorrow.” Adam strode away with the devastatingly casual certainty of someone with everything still ahead of them. 

Toni made notes on each page to remind herself which leads they were connected to, and then she couldn’t remember what to do next. Coffee. It was time for coffee.

The door to the corner office opened and shut. Maisie Rae emerged, smiling her tight-lipped deferential smile. Gabriel stood behind her, self-satisfied as ever. The man could congratulate himself all day and never get tired of it.

Toni glared at him and seethed quietly. She hated Gabriel. Almost as much as she hated Maisie Rae’s long-suffering insistence that he knew best, that he meant well. He did not know best and he did _not_ mean well. He didn’t mean anything. He was an empty suit held up by a hot puff of bluster.

Maisie Rae picked up her coat and purse. “I’m off to lunch,” she said to nobody in particular, a bit louder than was necessary.

Toni waited three minutes and then followed.

+++

“Oh no, I do appreciate what you’re saying, and I certainly don’t wish to seem obtuse. But if you could clarify, for my edification -- which language, _specifically,_ is controversial? Could it be softened with a rewrite? I’d hate to let this dear reader's letter go unanswered.”

Maisie Rae Fell kept her chin up and her hands folded loosely in her lap as she spoke. She was determined to remain pleasant, and what she determined to do, she did.

Gabriel looked uncomfortable with the act of saying something other than what he meant. There was a reason he didn’t like this particular submission, and he clearly didn’t want to say what it was. But he was ill-equipped for even the simplest of subterfuges. Which is to say, he didn't have what it took to be polite.

So he dodged the question instead. "Look, it's too long," he said. "Usually you fit two letters in that space."

"We’ve run a single many times. And this answer broadly addresses a great many other questions I receive, so it's efficient, in its way," Maisie Rae reasoned. "A few inches about mutual respect and shared decision-making in marriage -- whatever could be controversial about that?"

"Yeah, well, you didn't really pick on G&G, and there's no product mention, is there?" said Gabriel, evading the issue a second time. "And I don't really see where an ad fits in this answer, so Bea's gonna have a fit. Besides, the Confidential at the end is a downer. Those are only fun when they're a laugh line."

The corners of Maisie Rae's mouth pulled taut. "I had hoped that particular Confidential might help someone in immediate distress. Perhaps several someones. Is it not my role to help people?"

Gabriel looked intensely uncomfortable, but not because he thought he had to give any ground; he just wanted this meeting to end. "Technically, yes, that's your role, but it's your _job_ to sell subscriptions and entertain the readership. You don't want to sound maudlin, do you? Be an old nag? This here’s boring stuff; it's no fun to read. We gotta keep it light, more like Antonia's stuff, y'know, like, uh --" He snapped and pointed enthusiastically. "Like that vacuum cleaner thing last week! That was a hoot."

"May I revise it, with these notes?" inquired Maisie Rae carefully.

"Nah, we're not gonna run it. You can mail it directly to the asker, if they gave you an address. Just type up something else for Friday, the usual format. Two questions, one ad, a dig at Antonia, and done." He stood, relieved that his ordeal was at an end.

Maisie Rae was not ready to go, but she rose to her feet nonetheless. Her smile was very pleasant. 

Gabriel tossed the red-marked sheet of paper at her. She had to dive for it suddenly as it fluttered to and fro.

"Oh! And when you do Confidentials in the future, keep 'em peppy, y'know?" he added. "Always leave the readers on an up note. They're reading G&G next, gotta set the mood."

Maisie Rae folded the draft of her column in half, exactly, and creased it with her pinched thumb and forefinger. It was time for an early lunch. Fighting every impulse of her excellent breeding, she did not give Gabriel so much as a nod when she left. He did not notice.

+++

_Loyal Readers:_

_It turns out there_ is _such a thing as too much excitement even for G &G. We met our match at the much-anticipated wedding of Aaron Cohen and Virginia Magnusson, truly the most unforgettable event of the season. You'll have seen the formal pictures in the tabloids this morning: the charming socialite bride dazzles in a Victandi original, gifted to her by the Swedish royal family, and the celebrated thespian groom looks utterly besotted (as well a groom should when he's marrying into Magnusson money). _

_But oh! my darlings, how I wish you could have stowed away in my little red Sasha clutch to witness the affair. The decor in Centennial Gardens was impeccable, along with the music, the catering, and the guest list. However -- they might have consulted some of us who work the scene for a living (even a lowlife careerist gossipy tramp like Yours Truly) about the basics of hosting a bash with celebrities and alcohol. The first lesson is geography: location, location, location. The layout of the party is everything. For example:_

_Let the chocolate fondue station not be placed too near the small children who attended the bride (as the cost of the ruined clothing could easily purchase a house in the suburbs). Let the two young starlets who accidentally wore the same designer hat from La Cerise Blanche (both of whom were associated with the groom in days of yore) not be seated at the same table. Let the cohort of pickled movie stars be encouraged to play bocce as far as possible from the rented peacocks._

_But the two most remarkable logistical gaffes, the ones that made Saturday evening so unforgettable, were these: first, when releasing a flock of live doves for magical effect during the kiss, let their holding crates not be placed too near the floodlights. The exhausted doves that survived the ceremony did not fly off into the sky, but made for the nearest open table, where they (perhaps predictably) took to the magnificent wedding cake with gusto. Their late companions, alas, fell to the ground in medium-rare feathery heaps._

_As for the grand finale of the evening, eclipsing even the fireworks -- darling readers, you and G &G well know that the bouquet toss _ should _have taken place as far as possible from the stunning 7-tier tower of champagne flutes. But some poor soul in charge did not. You must imagine the tremendous sound that resulted from that oversight, as it is beyond your humble correspondent’s powers of description. Mazel tov, indeed._

_At least the ladies in attendance were wise enough not to dive into the sea of shattered crystal for the bouquet itself. No man is worth that. I saw an enterprising trombonist fetch it in the end, exactly the way you’d imagine they would, and it was in our opinion the best known use of that instrument to date._

_G.G._

_Send tips, leads, and invitations to Gossip and Glamour c/o the Daily Herald, address below. Anonymity guaranteed. Look for Toni Crowley's Nightlife Starter Kit, including her monogrammed cocktail shaker, in gift shops and department stores near you._

+++

"Either he is wrong, or I am wrong, but one of us fundamentally misunderstands my purpose on this planet," declared Maisie Rae Fell vehemently.

Toni fell into step with her at Their Phone Booth, a few blocks from the Herald. Together they walked away, away, away from work at a brisk city sidewalk pace.

"What's the reprimand of the day?" asked Toni.

"I mustn't address the readers' _real_ problems, oh no, that will never do,” groused Maisie Rae. “For what use is any advice into which I cannot squeeze a pitch for a new five-speed blender!"

"Let me guess. The college girl?"

"It was too dull, yet somehow too controversial, as if both of those could be true at once."

"Heaven forbid you tell a lady to do what she likes with her life."

"Heaven forbid I actually _help_ anyone at all! Dear Good Counsel," Maisie Rae recited breathlessly, "what do I tell the pastor's wife when she mentions the bruises on my face before mass? Dear Good Counsel, I'm skipping meals to reduce, and my daughter has noticed, how do I explain it to her? Dear Good Counsel, I want to vote, but my husband doesn't think I should, is it wrong to go to the polls in secret? Dear Good Counsel, my family will cut me off if I marry an immigrant from Puerto Rico, but I love him; is it worth it? Dear Good Counsel, my child suffers terrible fits, and he'll soon be too strong for me to restrain him; should he be institutionalized? Dear Good Counsel, I’m pregnant, and the baby isn't his, and he gets ever so angry when he drinks, and what do I do, what do I do, what do I _do --"_

Toni stared straight ahead, her jaw clenched in outraged sympathy. Maisie Rae would walk and talk very rapidly whenever she was upset, as if she could outrace anger or talk circles around sadness.

But Toni could always keep up. They passed the colonnade and entered the empty park, gusts of cold wind buffeting them both.

"...And I try to write them back, I try to write them _all_ back, I try _so_ hard to help," Maisie Rae carried on, "but I can't answer so many. Not one at a time. And Gabriel! Gabriel wants me to explain salad forks and soup spoons to twenty million readers! Again! For the _tenth time!"_

Though the gist of this complaint was nothing new, Maisie Rae was rarely so emotional about the root cause of her distress. Toni seldom spoke at times like these. Toni was there to listen. She would always be there to listen. She listened and her heart broke a little for all the things she couldn't fix, for the world Maisie Rae couldn't save, just like it did every time.

And today, after so many years of listening, Toni had something to say.

"Then let's tell Gabe that he can fuck off with his edits, or we’re leaving.”

Maisie Rae ceased her tirade. The crude proposal hung suspended in the tense space between them as they walked. Several children on roller skates roared past. A squirrel scolded the crows. In the distance, two dogs barked.

"That's not how the world works, my dear, and you know it as well as I do," said Maisie Rae at last.

Toni's mouth twitched. "If we showed a united front, they'd have to listen --"

"They just gave us each a _third_ of a secretary, Crowley. They're not about to give us anything else, not for years."

"We have leverage, though! They need us and they know it!" Toni insisted. "If we so much as took two weeks' _vacation_ at the same time, they’d be in hot water with the advertisers."

"And how do you propose we use our leverage?" Maisie Rae asked, her tone turning bleak. "What would you even ask for? Do you imagine they'd let us write whatever we like? Pay us like the men in the newsroom or editorial?"

"Sounds like a good start, yeah, and maybe an office too! Why the hell not?"

"We’ve talked about this, Crowley. It will _never happen."_

"Not if we don't demand it! We could really change things, angel, not just for us, for all the others, for Pepper and --"

"I don't want to lose my job!" cried Maisie Rae, a little too loudly, startling herself into sudden silence. Without slowing her pace, she shook out her shoulders, sniffed stoically, blinked tears away. She settled her entire demeanor as if calming a spooked horse.

When she spoke again, her voice was steady and low. "There are a hundred girls in line to take my place, Crowley. I am _utterly_ expendable. The woman I replaced was expendable. Auntie Agnes, you remember her?"

Toni poked her sunglasses further up her nose in reply.

"Of course you don't; nobody does. She was blackballed for telling the truth, and the world forgot about her in a month. When I first started out, writing columns under her name, nobody even noticed the difference! And Gabriel has _never_ let me forget that. I know that you're irreplaceable, Toni Crowley, you're so -- so --" Maisie Rae waved an arm up and down helplessly -- "you're so _glamorous._ And gorgeous and witty and -- and unforgettable, you're _special,_ everyone knows that! But me -- I'm just -- I’m -- _how_ could someone like me be a writer without Good Counsel?"

Toni stopped in her tracks.

"Come off it," she protested. "You're a writer down to your bones. It's what you _do._ You could be a writer without this preposterous gig."

Maisie Rae turned to her, huffing irascibly. "You mean a typist? I'm sure I could."

"This drivel isn't what you want to be writing and you know it!" Toni retorted. "If you stay, you'll be stuck with it till the end of your days!"

"It's a privilege to be published. I'm not about to throw that away!" Maisie Rae insisted.

Toni barked a bitter laugh and started stalking a watchful circle around her. "What, publishing etiquette guides? Wedding Q&A's? Ghostwritten cookbooks?"

Maisie Rae flinched at that. Toni immediately regretted saying it, and she stomped her foot at herself with an exasperated snarl. "That's not what I meant, angel! It's just I _know_ you have something better on tap. I know it. You know it, too."

"Perhaps it's not theatre criticism, or the next Gottspiel Prize novel," said Maisie Rae in a strained voice, "but it's the closest I'm likely to get. I am _lucky_ to write, Crowley. I help millions of people, I'm employed in my chosen field, and I earn my own way in the world. And here you are, trying to -- trying to make me _dissatisfied_ with my lot, when I'm as near to my highest hopes as I can possibly be!"

"But you _are_ dissatisfied, angel!" Toni pleaded, stepping closer. "You know you are! It's all over your face. I hate to see you so upset."

Maisie Rae swallowed hard and looked right into her eyes -- her sunglasses -- and didn’t turn away. They were both breathing hard. They drew closer. Toni's heart pounded wildly out of rhythm.

"It's just...you...I can’t..." Maisie Rae couldn’t find the words while she looked Toni in the face. She dropped her gaze to her sensible shoes.

"Come on, angel. Tell the truth," whispered Toni.

Maisie Rae shook her head wretchedly and sighed. "Crowley, my dear...I don't know who I'd be without this."

Then she closed her eyes and visibly summoned the fortitude to start putting herself back together again, like Humpty Dumpty -- doing all the work that the king’s horses and men could not, all by herself. Straightening the shoulders, tugging her jacket into place, adjusting her bow tie. She needed to appear _happy._ She needed to appear content. She was neither. But she was trying very hard to cobble together fractured pieces into a fragile shell that might fool the world from a distance. It looked like a lot of work, all this pretending.

But then, Maisie Rae Fell had never shied away from the work of keeping her own heart in line.

Toni looked her dearest rival up and down, and she knew, she finally _knew_ that Maisie Rae would never bite the hand that fed her. She would never change. She was just too set on behaving. On being safe. On _hiding --_

...And that was that.

 _"Nnnnnnrrrgh!"_ Toni growled in fierce frustration, whirling away. "If you won't do something, maybe I will. I don't know how I’ll go another week on the same floor as Gabriel Horne without throwing a punch."

Maisie Rae gasped. "What, you'd -- you wouldn't -- _leave?"_

"Might do," Toni sniffed.

Maisie Rae's hands flew to her face. Her composure crumbled. "But you -- how would I -- how would they get on without you there?"

"You'd manage." She shrugged. "We'd still see each other."

"But you work nights a-and weekends, and I --"

"There's always Mondays."

"When could we possibly...oh, but that's not _nearly_ enough time to..." At last, Maisie Rae looked truly in danger of tears.

"Or you could tag along." Toni thrust her hands into her coat pockets and tossed her head. "We could go find something else. Together."

"Together?" With a hitch in her step, with lips parted and trembling, Maisie Rae drew nearer. "Crowley, I'd -- I'd do anything for you, you _know_ that -- only --"

"Only you won't do this, will you."

Maisie Rae halted.

"Which means you're lying."

Toni hadn't meant it to sound so cold. But it was the truth. She had no use for lies, not even friendly little lies like _manners_ and _courtesy._ Maisie Rae gaped helplessly, trying and failing to speak, but her expression only told Toni what she already knew.

"If you won't do _this,_ you won't do _anything_ for me," Toni repeated. "It's beyond your limit. And that's fine, angel. It’s _fine._ We all have our limits.”

“But Crowley --”

“And I'm all on my own. ‘S fine."

Then the impossible happened. Maisie Rae began to cry in public. Right there, right on the cracked gray footpath across the park. It was unprecedented.

But Toni still backed away, one painful step at a time, shaking her head. "Sorry, angel. I can't fix this one for you. ...I'll see you later."

And Toni Crowley surprised even herself when she found the strength to walk away.

Of course, they'd see one another later. They'd see one another back at the office after lunch. Just across the room, just there. But they'd have no reason to talk at work; they never really did.

Toni stopped by a delicatessen on her way back for a sandwich and a slice of cake. Just to make sure Maisie Rae would actually have something to eat. Whenever she was ready.

+++

_Dear Good Counsel,_

_My husband has started working late at the office. How can I get him to come home before his supper gets cold? - N. S._

_Dear N.S.,_

_If your husband is under pressure to put in more hours, he's likely tense and tired. It's important to ensure that coming home to a meal with the family is a comforting relief at the end of the day. So prioritize not only the food, but the atmosphere as well -- nice music, good manners among all attending (especially little ones, if any), and an environment free of stress. If it's a delight to come home, you can be certain he'll be eager to return the moment work allows._

_As for food preparation, I have two recommendations: the first is to invest in a good simmer cooker, which offers many inventive options for meals that can keep warm for hours, with little effort on your part. I use the new Sunstar model and it's a busy home chef's dream! You might also plan a few meals that can be cooked in advance, then heated or reheated on the stove in just a few minutes -- such as soups, stews, casseroles, and grilled sandwiches -- so that you can prepare them in the middle of the day, or a day ahead. This will save you all manner of headache and worry, since you'll be able to cook at your leisure, and still have a hot meal ready with minimal effort not five minutes after he's in the door._

_G.C._

_P.S. Confidential to F.C. in Richmond: In matters of romance, fashion, and health, if your instincts tell you something is amiss, never hesitate to ask for a second opinion from a trusted party._

+++

Maisie Rae Fell sat at her desk, spine straight, chin up, staring at the wrapped slice of cake Toni had left her. She wanted to be sick.

She couldn't go home. She couldn’t write. She couldn't walk past Toni's desk to the kitchen. She couldn't talk to Gabriel or Bea. She couldn't do _anything._ She felt trapped like a bird in a bus hangar.

What on earth was she _for,_ if not to help?

Perhaps it was time to consult a higher authority.

After an hour sitting at her Hermes without typing a single word, Maisie Rae stood. She had reached a daunting decision. She would use her leverage. She would ask to speak with the Editor of one of the most widely read newspapers in the country. She was taking her questions Upstairs.

She stepped into the lift with Pepper and Adam, two of the charming young newsroom runners that Toni talked about so much.

"Oh, we're going up, Miss Fell. Is this the car you want?" asked Pepper. She had an armload of notebooks and a pen in her hair.

"It is, thank you," said Maisie Rae with a polite nod, though her heart was pounding madly. "Seven, if you please." Brian pushed the button for her and they ascended.

"...Anyway," Pepper said to Adam, resuming their conversation, "he wants the birth records. But I think we should check the admissions records as well. So you do that, and I'll try to dig up the officer on duty at the time."

"Okay," said Adam with a friendly shrug.

How remarkable, thought Maisie Rae. What she wouldn't give to be Pepper's age these days, working alongside Adams who didn't even blink at being told what to do by a girl!

Perhaps one day the newspaper would be overseen by an Adam type. Or even a Pepper.

For now, though, it was run by the Editor.

Maisie Rae was well aware she was taking her career into her own hands by stopping in without being summoned. Not because the Editor would be bothered, necessarily, but because Gabriel might see it as a direct challenge to his authority. Maisie Rae hadn't spoken to the Editor since the week she’d started writing Good Counsel under her own name. That had been their one and only meeting in all her years at the paper.

The seventh floor was very different from Lifestyle, high-ceilinged and bright white, all marble and plaster. Not only were the executive suites all behind closed doors, even the secretaries had private offices, little antechambers to the halls of power. The floor receptionist was the sole inhabitant of the lobby, a beautiful young blonde woman wearing ruby red lipstick. She did not acknowledge Maisie Rae's approach.

"Erm -- hello there, my dear," said Maisie Rae, offering her most ingratiating smile. The girl looked up and fluttered her eyelashes vacantly as if she’d heard meaningless sounds instead of words. "I wonder if I might make an appointment to see --"

"Perhaps I can assist you?" said a voice over Maisie Rae's shoulder. She turned and her cheery expression flagged.

The tall woman standing in the doorway to the Editor's suite was many years Maisie Rae's senior. While her face was a study in corporate politeness, there was no hint of humanity beneath; this was a specialist, a gatekeeper, an assistant hired specifically to turn away every petitioner.

"Ah, thank you, yes, I do hope so!" Maisie Rae said hurriedly, already tripping over her words. "I'm sorry, Miz, ah --"

"Trond, _Miss_ Etta Trond," the woman said regally. "I'm authorized to speak for the Editor when it comes to personnel matters."

"Very good, yes, thank you. Although it's not exactly a personnel matter, rather, it's a sort of, ahm --" She extended a hand awkwardly. "Maisie Rae Fell, from -- I'm, actually I'm a columnist, I write Good Counsel, you see, down in Lifestyle, and I need to --"

"Yes, we're all aware of your work. Everyone has such high hopes for the cookbook," said Miss Trond in a thoroughly unconvincing tone. She ignored the offered hand.

Maisie Rae's heart sank a little lower with every passing second. "Well, I just -- I wondered if I might make an appointment, to discuss my --"

"That won't be necessary," Miss Trond interrupted. She was inflexible as the Rock of Gibraltar. "I can help you with anything you need."

"It's rather a big picture question, you see, that’s the issue, about the mission and philosophy of --"

"Mister Horne is the guiding light regarding such matters, when it comes to Lifestyle."

"Well yes, o-of course he is," Maisie Rae acknowledged, taking a half-step back, clasping her hands to keep them still. "Only I've just spoken to him this morning, and I'd rather like to clarify what my --"

"Were Mister Horne's wishes so unclear that you felt the need to come all the way up here?"

Maisie Rae's mouth trembled with frustration as she realized that she was unlikely to finish a single meaningful sentence on the seventh floor without taking drastic measures. She thought of Toni, ever-so-brave Toni, and she took a deep breath.

"My inquiry is about the nature of the Herald itself --"

"I'm confident I speak for the Editor when I say that --"

" -- _and_ the role of Lifestyle within the Herald's mission. How do we best serve our readers? What are the paper's fundamental principles? What are our guidelines when it comes to the ethics of deciding how to -- to share true and accurate information, to address controversy, to meet the readers' needs?" Maisie Rae gave herself a tiny encouraging nod, proud to have finished her question. It sounded small and hollow, foolish and frail, out in the open. But at least she'd said it. At least she'd asked.

Miss Trond smiled a most discouraging smile. A pitying smile. An unassailably certain smile.

"We do not _serve_ our readers, Miss Fell. We offer them what they want to hear, and they attend to us,” she said. “We have no reason to be concerned with what they need. We _create_ their needs. They desire what we tell them to desire, they fear what we tell them to fear, they buy what we tell them to buy. Mister Horne understands the Herald's fundamental principles very well."

Maisie Rae swallowed. "Of -- of course."

"Truth and accuracy are the purview of the corrections column. Page A6, I'm sure you'll have seen it? If you need them, you'll find them in the news bureau downstairs." Miss Trond took a calculated step back into her office. "If you'll excuse me, I'm preparing for a conference with the Mayor. Have a pleasant afternoon. Oh, and we _do_ look forward to the cookbook."

The heavy oak door slowly closed in Maisie Rae's face.

"I -- quite, yes, thank you...if...well then." She wasn't sure whom she meant to address, but the receptionist wasn't listening, and Miss Trond wasn't either. Maisie Rae bowed her head, feeling as small as she had ever felt.

Toni was wrong. They had no leverage. None at all.

But Toni was also right. To remain at the Herald would mean resigning themselves to _this,_ forever. It would mean writing empty-headed caricatures of themselves for the rest of their days: Virtue and Vice. The Good Girl and the Bad Girl. They were not meant to help. They were only ever meant to _appear._ To entertain.

She knew in her bones that Toni wouldn't play their game for much longer. 

But Maisie Rae couldn't fathom leaving. Where would she go? What would she do? Who would she be, if not Good Counsel?

Not that it was up to her anymore. In all likelihood, her impulsive trip Upstairs would get her warned, or put on leave, or even fired. She might have just detonated her own career on a whim after a walk in the park. _And she hadn't even invited Toni along._

Perhaps if they'd presented a united front --

But no, she knew better now. After seeing the heavy closed doors of the men who made decisions, after being put back in her place by Miss Trond, she knew. United front or no, their leverage meant nothing Upstairs.

Maisie Rae Fell boarded the lift alone. Once the doors closed, she hid her face in her hands.

She was so very, very tired of being what they wanted her to be.

She needed a cigarette and a dirty martini. And a slice of goddamn cake.

+++

Miss Newton had not returned from lunch. Neither, coincidentally, had Nathan Device.

It hardly mattered. Maisie Rae sat down at her desk, unwrapped her chocolate cake, and broke off a large bite in her hand. She popped it straight into her mouth and licked the frosting off her fingers shamelessly. The pretty brunette at the next desk -- Mary or Margaret or somesuch, they came and went so fast, it was hard to remember -- stared openly in shock.

Across the room, from behind her sunglasses, Toni Crowley did too.

Maisie Rae stared back unabashedly. She had no idea what would happen next, but she knew who she wanted it to happen _with._

She picked up the phone at her desk and asked the operator to put her through to Gossip & Glamour. She looked over at Toni, who appeared strangely stiff and pale. Hopefully they could put the whole awful afternoon behind them, and simply arrange to meet after work for apologies, explanations, strategy, and of course wine. Maybe even gin.

But the call to Gossip & Glamour rang through to Miss Newton's desk now, not Toni's. "Odds bodkins!" grumbled Maisie Rae, slamming the receiver down in irritation.

Before she could try again, Toni's phone rang of its own accord. Maisie Rae watched as she picked up -- was Toni's hand trembling? She said only a few short words, nodding, before hanging up somberly.

Then Toni stood up, covered her typewriter, gathered all her things, and left her desk in a hurry. It was only two o'clock.

Baffled and more than a little alarmed, Maisie Rae shot to her feet and tried to catch Toni’s attention on the way out. When Toni didn't even glance her way, she took a few steps in pursuit, holding the office door open. "Er, Miss Crowley?" she called uncertainly.

"Not _now,_ angel!" Crowley hissed, rushing for the lift. "Hold the door, would you, Brian?"

Maisie Rae followed her out into the floor lobby. "But we _must_ talk, I took a few questions Upstairs and I'm afraid I might have --"

Toni darted into lift and spun to face her. "Can't chat, gotta run. Ciao!"

The doors closed and Toni was gone. Maisie Rae's heart was hammering in her chest. Something felt dreadfully wrong.

The lift on the opposite side pinged its arrival with appalling cheerfulness. A massive white floral arrangement emerged on shapely legs; they turned out to belong to Tracy, the office manager. Shadwell shuffled after her, irritably mumbling something about being conscripted into service, carrying several stacked boxes of pens, paper, tea, and typewriter ink for the office. He was followed by a somewhat dazed-looking Nathan Device, in a new shirt; on one arm he had some large shopping bags from Barnaby's, and on the other he had Miss Newton, who towered over him, smiling bashfully.

The lobby was uncomfortably full of people and parcels and fragments of conversation. Maisie Rae spun in place, caught in the swarm, praying desperately for some idea of what to do next. Talk to Gabriel? Hide from Gabriel? Run after Toni? Quit in a huff? Rewrite the column and tack on an apology note?

"Oh, Miss Fell! You’re right here!" said Nathan. A long white umbrella and a golden gift bag were thrust into her hands. She looked at them in distracted confusion. "That makes it easy. Thank you for the loan!"

"I cannae rightly get outta yer way till yer get outta mine!" Shadwell was barking at Tracy, meanwhile, in his mysterious mishmash of an accent.

"But I can't quite manage the door, dearie, can you please?" Tracy asked.

_"Not with all this tea!"_

"There's something there for you as well," Nathan said to Maisie Rae, pointing to the gift bag and giving her a wink.

"From Domenico's," Miss Newton added. Then she sputtered and tripped backwards as Tracy's gladioli swiped her across the face. Nathan caught her by the waist, and then they both ducked as the flowers whipped by them again. Maisie Rae's head was starting to spin.

"Oh, do stand aside so that one of them can get it," Tracy said to Shadwell.

"Yes, exactly, I've got it," Nathan offered, stepping further into the fray.

“No, _I_ do!” Shadwell honked.

"Back up or it won't open,” Tracy warned Shadwell. “There’s a dear."

"We should all back up," said Miss Newton sensibly, and she began herself.

"I cannae back up till the ruddy _flowers_ back up! Give me some air!" bellowed Shadwell. He never did well when touched or crowded; the old wartime instincts tended to kick in at the least useful moments, and from the look in his eye this was verging on one of them.

He stubbornly tried for the door handle again with his arms full, and the highest boxes on his pile began to slip. Maisie Rae made a squeaking sound and pointed, but nobody heard.

The lift returned with a ding. The doors opened.

"Would you just _look_ at those flowers!" Gabriel crowed at top volume.

Maisie Rae panicked.

Without even thinking where she might go, she spun instinctively to flee from Gabriel.

Her umbrella hooked Miss Newton's ankle.

The spindly girl went over like a bowling pin. Nathan leaped to rescue her with a shout, but he tripped over the boxes tumbling out of Shadwell's arms. The Barnaby's bags swung wildly, and Tracy was knocked off balance. She hit the door with an “oomph!” and her vase sloshed water all over Nathan's trousers while he collapsed on top of Miss Newton, apologizing profusely.

Gabriel strode right up, looming frightfully large. He did not want to help, some small voice told Maisie Rae -- _he wanted to look like someone helpful._ Gabriel extended a hand and a great big handsome abrasive phony _horrible_ smile to Maisie Rae.

Her every instinct fired at once. She flinched away from him, wide-eyed and terrified.

And that was how she went toppling and twisting into the riotous tangle of limbs below, her feet in the air, her arms windmilling wildly.

Time seemed to slow as Maisie Rae flew through the air. Her last conscious thought was that she wished Toni could have seen the whole thing. Toni would have _loved_ watching her prim and proper little angel take a helpless tumble -- especially when she so deserved it -- especially right in front of Gabriel -- _especially_ the part where Maisie Rae shouted, at top volume, a word that the Herald had never heard before from the distinguished authoress of Good Counsel:

_"FFFFUCK!"_

Shadwell pivoted, roaring a reflexive profanity of his own at anyone who dared encroach on his space.

Unfortunately, he pivoted elbow-first into her nose.

Maisie Rae heard a terribly loud crunch and wondered where it had come from. She saw something like fireworks, and then she saw nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the beginning notes: CW for brief period-typical conversational mentions of the following: domestic violence, controlling behavior, disordered eating, racism, health issues (specifically seizures) and institutionalization. The framing is that *these* are the real issues Maisie Rae's readers have, and she wishes she could help, but Gabriel limits her to writing about etiquette and ads.  
> \---
> 
> The wedding sounds like a blast and I wish I'd been there. The peacocks absolutely beat the soused celebrities.
> 
> It is TERRIBLY important that you go visit this artwork of Maisie Rae and Toni, NOW, it's their Sunday feature photo, 'Virtue and Vice':  
> https://idanit.tumblr.com/post/624511607359340544/some-weeks-later-the-daily-herald-ran-the  
> By the incredible @idanit! This Lifestyle cover is canon now.
> 
> One chapter left! Thank you so much for taking some time for this today, dear reader! Good Counsel and Gossip & Glamour salute you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much, loyal readers! I cannot recommend enough the many new AU's entering the world because of this event, here they are: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/AUmens
> 
> If you've enjoyed this, share it with a friend or say hello, here or on Tumblr (@charlottemadison42). You are wonderful for taking a moment to read my wives, thank you!
> 
> This fic is four chapters long, and because the world is wild right now, it will post when it posts (alternating with my other WIP Shotgun Wedding).
> 
> If you'd like more to read right now --  
> Here's some canon short and feelsy: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24466828  
> Here's some longer canon bus ride and bodyswapping: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21454282  
> Here's my slow burn human AU that's wrapping up soon: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22557148/


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